


A Love That Bleeds

by swilmarillion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Gore, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Violence, implied but not really explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 19:22:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion
Summary: Celegorm seeks one last favor from Orome.  He does not know how much he asks





	A Love That Bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> for terrifying tolkien week 2019

Celegorm moves with easy, practiced grace. His steps make no sound in the underbrush, though he is less certain these days that this is by any virtue of his own. These woods are strange and silent and still, and he thinks perhaps there is no sound in them their lord does not allow. Still, he is not frightened by the stillness, or the eerie sense of being watched. He is welcome here, has always been welcome here, and he walks on, unafraid.

Unafraid, yes, but also, though he little cares to admit it, uneasy.

Things are different since the Oath. Stranger. Wilder. Less certain than they had been all his life before. Paths that once seemed straight and true and yielding twist under his feet, leading him in ways he is not sure he wants to go. Lesser hearts might have turned away, might have fled for the safety of the fields beyond the wood, away from the silent, judging eyes that surrounded him, unseen and unheard, but not un-felt. 

But Celegorm’s heart is mighty, bold and unyielding, and he walks on toward the forest’s heart. He is welcome here. He has always been welcome here.

_He does not yet know that always can be a thing of the past. He will know it one day soon._

He steps out of the trees and into a clearing he knows by heart. He has seen it countless times before, roamed its impossible boundaries and lain in its soft, green grass. He knows it in sunlight as well as in shade, and he knows it now in the dark and moonless night. There is a fire burning in its center. There is always a fire burning there. He has fed it himself in days past, with wood gathered and split by his own rough hand. Its eternal flame has warmed him, dried his clothes, fed his belly with spit-roasted flesh, and taken his offerings and thanks. 

It burns low tonight. He is not sure why. He passes the low-banked flames and tries not to wonder.

The tent is where it always is, just past the fire’s dancing light. It is white like bone and splattered with shifting red. Celegorm has never noticed how much the flames look like blood on the seamless, faultless cloth. He tries not to notice it now. Steeling himself, he reaches for the fold of the entrance and ducks inside. 

He has known Oromë for more years than he can count, and yet the sight of him still takes Celegorm’s breath away. There is a quality of wonder to all the Valar, for they are something Other, something ancient and strange and fey. Yet he has always loved Oromë best, loved the smooth black of his flesh, the bone-decked braids of his hair, the tattoos that shift and change before his eyes. He has always loved the warm gold of Oromë’s eyes, the blinding white of his smile. 

(_His mind strays unbidden to the memory of the feel of Oromë’s hands,_ _the rasp of his voice in the dark, the searing satisfaction of his own pleading, brutally answered. He pushes these thoughts away._)

Oromë isn’t smiling now. His face is grave, though not angry, and Celegorm takes heart. “Lord Oromë,” he says, inclining his head.

“Tyelkormo,” Oromë says in return. His lips do not move. They do not have to. Celegorm hears him all the same.

There is silence between them for a long moment. 

“You are leaving me,” Oromë says.

“I am leaving Aman,” Celegorm says. “I am not leaving you.” Oromë tilts his head, a familiar gesture of interest that makes Celegorm ache inside, and he pushes on. “What is distance to a god?” he says, a lightness in his words that he does not feel.

“The leagues of the earth are nothing to me,” Oromë says, and Celegorm knows that this is true. “But there are other kinds of distance, Tyelkormo.”

Tyelkormo. Hasty-riser. He has always loved the sound of his name on Oromë’s tongue. What others despise, Oromë has always cherished—boldness, action, impulse without fear. It is what has always endeared him to the Vala, and Celegorm hopes it will do so now.

“If I have offended you,” he says, striding forward to close the distance between them, “then I beg your forgiveness. It was not my intent.” He bows his head, respectful if not contrite. “I have loved you well these many years. I have learned your lessons and kept your ways. I have given you the first blood of my hunts and the glory of my skills. I have sought your pleasure and your blessing in all things, and if I have lost it through this oath, then I am sorry.” 

“It is not my blessing you should fear to lose,” Oromë says.

“Yours is the only blessing that matters,” Celegorm answers, bowing his head low.

Oromë reaches out, rough palm cupping Celegorm’s chin, raising his face and looking into his eyes. “Tyelko,” he says, his voice low, reverberating in Celegorm’s chest. His thumb reaches up to stroke Celegorm’s lips, and Celegorm turns his head to kiss Oromë’s palm.

“What do you want of me?” Oromë asks.

“Your love,” Celegorm says, heart aching in his chest.

“You have had it many times before,” Oromë says, feeling the warmth of Celegorm’s blush beneath his hand. “You do not come to seek it now.”

“Your blessing,” Celegorm says.

“You have that too,” Oromë says, “though you grieve me by the swearing of this oath. Tell me what you really seek, son of Feanaro. My patience is a brittle, and it wears thin.”

“I have no right to ask,” Celegorm says, eyes downcast, unwilling to meet Oromë’s gaze.

“It has never stopped you before.”

Celegorm breathes in, breathes out, steels his courage. “You have always shown me kindness,” Celegorm says, looking up at him at last. “Though I have been angry and impetuous and unworthy. I ask your kindness one time more, though I stray far from where you would have me be. Grant that I may always find that which I seek, and I will give you the glory of my success.”

Oromë withdraws his hand, and Celegorm mourns the loss of his warmth. Oromë’s eyes are hard, and Celegorm fears he has gone too far. 

“I may not have my brothers’ gift for prophesy,” Oromë says, “but even I can see you ask me for a curse.”

“You could never do me ill,” Celegorm says. He wants to believe that this is true.

“The things we seek,” Oromë says, “are not always the things we wish to find. I fear you’ll learn this, to your sorrow.”

Celegorm is afraid now. He has never liked to be afraid. He reacts the only way he’s ever known. “Ask of me what you will,” he says, lifting his chin defiantly. “I will do it.”

Oromë’s face is hard; his voice, when he speaks, is cold is ice. “Bring me a white stag’s heart,” he says, “and I will grant this thing you ask.” There are rules that even he must follow, though he loves them little. He turns away.

Celegorm takes his leave, and heads back into the forest.

*****

It takes him three days. He eats what little he can forage and drinks the cold water of the streams he comes across. He sleeps little and wanders long, following tracks and scents and fleeting glimpses through the trees. The white stag is rare, and it is sacred. It is not a thing killed lightly, and Celegorm feels the weight of it as he stalks the cunning beast through field and stream and clawing underbrush. He wastes arrows and shatters a spear, curses and despairs and hardens his heart.

It takes him three days, but he kills the thing at last. It is not an easy death. The stag is larger than any deer he has felled, and fights with every ounce of its inhuman strength. An arrow pierces it, but it does not fall. A spear makes it stumble, and Celegorm gains. It is a knife that finally finishes it, stabbed through the shoulder and the chest, slashed viciously across the throat. It does not give its spirit willingly. One great, shining antler pierces Celegorm’s side, and he grits his teeth against the pain of it, hacking at the shining down of the throat until the knife falls from his hand, greased with hot blood and gleaming viscera. The stag falls not long after, crashing to the bank of a stream and lying still at last, still at last.

Celegorm falls with it, knees buckling beneath him, hands shaking as he peels up his shirt. The wound is deep and jagged, his own red blood seeping through the fabric to mix with the golden gleam of the stag’s. Celegorm peels off his shirt and tears it, shaking hands methodically folding it and pressing it into place. Two more long strips bind it to him, and he pants, dazed and shaken, the world spinning before his eyes. He kneels in the dirt and thinks how easy it would be to sleep, how soft the grass beneath him, beckoning.

He grits his teeth and crawls to the beast, heaving it onto its back. He hacks the heart from its chest and pulls it free, watching the golden blood spill through his fingers and down his arms. It beats against his palm, and he thinks it must stop, it cannot go on, the beat of it louder than the stream, the birds, the cry of the cicadas in the trees. 

It does not stop. Celegorm cradles it to his chest, shivering as it touches his chest. He wipes the gore-soaked knife on his breeches and slides it into the sheath. Then he steels himself and stands, wincing at the searing pain in his side. The world swims before him, and he closes his eyes, breathing raggedly. He takes a deep breath, then another, then another. He opens his eyes and begins to walk.

*****

When he reaches the clearing, Celegorm is exhausted. He is ragged and battered, feet stumbling beneath him. He has bled too much; his skin is cold, and the trees spin dizzily before his eyes. The earth calls to him, bids him to fall on the soft grass, to rest his head on the moss. He does not heed its call. He staggers past the fire and pushes his shoulder against the entrance of the tent. 

Oromë is there, as he is always there. Celegorm has suspects he is there even when he is not. The thought makes his head spin, and he pushes it away. He stumbles forward until he reaches Oromë, until the sight of him fills his vision and the smell of him makes him weak. He falls to his knees and holds the heart in his outstretched hands. It beats against his palms, strong as the moment he plucked it from its cage of bone. “The heart of the white stag,” he whispers, almost too weak to speak.

“Eat it,” Oromë says, and Celegorm obeys.

It is a terrible thing that he does. He will do many more terrible things in days to come, and some will be much worse, but none will fuel his nightmares more than this. The heart is warm, and the flesh beats against his teeth as he chews is. The blood is bitter and hot, burning his lips. It gags him when he swallows. A lesser will might have given up, but Celegorm is nothing if not persistent.

When the last chunk slides heavy down his throat, Oromë kneels and takes Celegorm’s face in his hands. He kisses him, and the blistered flesh of Celegorm’s lips screams at the pressure. He shivers as Oromë’s hand caresses his tired flesh, sliding smoothly through the gore and mingled blood that soaks him. He lets Oromë lift him, moaning softly as the torn flesh of his side rips anew.

Oromë carries him to his bed and lays him on the furs, soothing Celegorm’s hiss of pain with a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “I feared the beast has killed me,” Celegorm says, turning his head to the side to see Oromë’s face. 

Oromë kneels beside him, stripping the sodden fabric from his wound. Celegorm cries out as the fabric tugs at his flesh. Blood spills from the gash and stains the fur beneath him. “It is not yet your time,” Oromë says, pressing a warm, damp cloth to the wound.

“I have done the thing you asked of me,” Celegorm says, his teeth gritted against the pain.

The cloth in Oromë’s hand is soaked with crimson and gold. His touch is gentle, but the pain is intense, and Celegorm bites his tongue to keep from crying out. Oromë wipes away the blood, and when he pulls back his hand, the wound ceases to bleed. He does not look at Celegorm.

Celegorm reaches for Oromë’s hand. “Oromë,” he says. “Please.”

For a moment, Oromë is silent, and Celegorm’s heart is in his throat. Then Oromë lifts Celegorm’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I will do the same,” he says. There is sorrow in his voice, and Celegorm, spent as he is, cannot fathom why. “Rest, now,” Oromë says, leaning down to press a kiss to Celegorm’s forehead. “In the morning, you must go.”

*****

It is daybreak when Celegorm wakes, warm and contented and blissfully free of pain. He sits up and runs a hand over the jagged white scar on his side, the only sign of the wound that nearly killed him. He looks for Oromë, but the Vala is nowhere to be found. Celegorm sighs and picks himself up. He casts a last, longing glance around the tent and pushes his way outside. 

It takes him a moment to realize what is strange about the clearing where he stands. The fire, ever-burning, has gone out. He kneels beside it and presses a hand to the coals. They give no hint of the flames that outmatched his own height only the day before; the embers are cold and crumble beneath his hands. He stands up, uneasy, and startles at the rattle behind him. He turns to find the tent has collapsed, falling in on itself in a heap. He goes to it, watching in dismay as the fabric twists and tears and crumbles, aging an eon before his eyes. 

He backs away, eyes darting uneasily around the clearing. He is beginning to understand the sorrow in Oromë’s eyes, the regret in his voice. Later, he will share it. For now, he turns and runs. 


End file.
